The Assassin's Muse
by Mixed Metaphors
Summary: Every night she returned with more blood on her hands. Sometimes it was her own. More often it was not. Music is neither light nor dark. What effect will it have on this young halfdrow assassin?


Disclaimer: The Underdark does not belong to me. I have merely conquered it for the time being.

**The Assassin's Muse**

It was the music that saved her.

It did not save her completely, there was nothing in her world that could. Every light that was taken into the cold pressure of the dark was weakened and eventually extinguished.

Even Solque, the only friend she knew, the girl who told her about the stars, even her light had faded, too battered by her exhaustive fight for survival to cast out the shadows. The dark changes a person. The elven healer no longer reached out to the injured. She did not comfort the dying. She attended only her Mistress and those few that were sent to her. In her heart, the slave mourned her loss of self and she hoped that when (she refused to say 'if') she returned to the surface, her soul would come back to her with the sunrise.

Every night _she_ returned with more blood on her hands. Sometimes it was her own. More often it was not. And every night, Solque would dutifully wash it away, staining her own hands with it. The blood darkened them both, covering the signs of who they used to be.

To her the blood was gold, and to her servant, chains.

They were both chained, though she herself was unaware of her own fetters, forged in her own blood and the oaths made by a child. She often wondered where that child had gone. For so long she had thought the girl she'd been was still alive, until her lover had placed flowers on her grave. Still, she did not grieve. She refused to admit the loss. Had she known what they were, she would have been glad that the Underdark had no mirrors. She did not want to see that she no longer smiled.

She was allowed freedom within her cage. Her city. Her home.

Nobody and everybody who lived within knew what she was, and they feared her for it. They danced on the bones of the dead and drank blood in silver goblets but they feared to see it written on the walls.

_Assassin._

Her warmth had disappeared, but not her passion. Every fight had its' own meaning to her. Each assignment was a life she touched, and ended. She allowed them to look into her, to see her for who she truly was. And she dismissed them, both from this life and her own mind.

Still…there were those times. Those times when she felt suddenly surrounded by all of them. They seemed to press in on her then, dead hands grasping hers, dead eyes that knew her secrets…

These feelings did not occur often, only once every decade or so, but when they did she would throw down her blades, leave her house and cross the river. She sought solitude, but she would not hide in the darkest corners, they would offer no solace. Instead, she would immerse herself in the heart of the crowd. For it was only by showing the world her face could she escape their suffocating, unfocused fear. At least, for a while.

It was on one of these pilgrimages that she heard music for the first time.

It was not light. And yet…it was not dark. It floated somewhere in between, drifting and swirling in eddies of beautiful sound. She stood motionless as she listened to it, a statue enchanted. The music stirred her as if it were an underground wind. It seemed to fill her with emotions she had forgotten or never known. It evoked images in her mind that she had never dreamed of. For the long minutes she listened, it reconciled the divided soul of the half-drow and soothed her.

It freed her.

She came back more regularly after that. Whenever she had a few free moments she would go listen to the street performers and let them weave their magic. She paid them handsomely every time, with gold coins bought by blood. The musicians were always welcoming of her patronage. They took the habit of reserving a chair for her and would ask her if she had requests for them. She knew no songs in particular but she would whisper to them her mood and they would oblige. Sometimes, she wished for something with more piping, or perhaps something with more strings. She might be in the mood for a thought-provoking solo piece, or occasionally a livelier ensemble.

It was on one of her visits that a young male piper offered to teach her how to play. She was surprised, but something of the curious child she had been long ago resurfaced and she reverently took the proffered flute from his hand. The male's name was Y'entan and he was a good teacher. Within a year, through his tutelage, the assassin was playing so well that the performers allowed her to join in for some of their songs. Slowly it seemed that her free days were getting shorter and fewer and further between. It was not long before she could rarely return to see the musicians. But she did not forget them. For their services, she made sure that a fairly generous portion of her earnings was sent to the musicians on a monthly basis.

She kept the flute.

She played for her brothers in gratitude. She played in the dark of her room as a tribute for the dead. She played for her lover as he kissed her back, to express in notes what she did not understand in words. But mostly, she played for herself.

The music did not wash away the blood or erase the scars, but it gave her the strength to bear it. The songs she played opened doors in the walls of her cage, doors she'd never known were there. As long as she followed the notes she could walk through those open doors and just _be_.

She lived then, not in the action of death as she always did, but in the song of life.

That flame never lasted after the music stopped, it couldn't. But it left a spark in her heart, and it was that spark that saved her from herself.

She continued to kill, of course, death had become a part of her essence that she could not escape, but the spark became a small shield and kept it from consuming her. Part of her was free of death, free of the dark and it was enough.

And once, after playing a song for her lover, she remembered how to smile.

A/N: The name of the assassin is Nadezdha Ssarash'i. You can read more about her in my story Caught in the Web. Solque is pronounced Sol-kway, in case you were wondering. Thank you for reading! If you have time please tell me what you think.


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